


they're just lines

by those_forgotten



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, eleanor and louis kind of mentioned, everything's kind of ok in the end though, i can't write a fic without someone dying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:47:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3322895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/those_forgotten/pseuds/those_forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>after louis dies, harry tries to make something of this world again, this world of cruel truths and words and realities beyond reason</p>
            </blockquote>





	they're just lines

You can call Harry a lot of things, but one thing he isn’t is unreasonable. After Louis died, he did everything just as he ought to have. He accepted all the flowers and condolences from people who seemed to think they had loved Louis just as much as he did. He helped to divide up all of Louis’ possessions to be donated, auctioned off for charity, or kept. He went on Twitter to assure fans that the boys would be okay as long as they had each other and their constant love and support. He held Eleanor when she broke down at the funeral. He took every one of Zayn’s blows when he demanded just why he was being so bloody stoic about this. 

He kept it all completely together. He wasn’t going to be irrational. He hadn’t made it this far to lose it now, not with millions of eyes watching. 

So it was that when he heard Louis’ voice in the trees behind his father’s bungalow a month or so after the death, he just about clawed his ears off. 

The boys had silently acknowledged that they would have to sort this out as a band when they received a letter from Modest expressing its deepest sympathies and hope that the artists would “carry on Mr. Tomlinson’s memory in their new arrangements”. But as far as Harry was concerned, there was all the time in the world, and right now, he had to be alone in his head or he might explode. When the four of them met to have their first official talk since – since, Harry couldn’t make it through the first attempt Liam made at talking. Hearing him speak so shakily, and frankly looking destroyed was beyond Harry. He was supposed to be the reasonable one. Why hasn’t he being levelheaded now? 

He’d stood up abruptly, and Zayn had glared from across the table. “You can’t keep avoiding this, Harry. What is your goddamn problem with just dealing with it? There is no one else to turn to. You can’t go home and talk it out with Lou.” 

Harry hardened his face into granite and hoped the dynamite in his body didn’t blow him apart. “You can’t keep wrenching yourself away from us and away from what you’re feeling because you’re too selfish to realize that Louis. Is. Gone. This is all we have, babe. Get out of your head.” 

“Zayn,” Liam had croaked, his face crumbling around the tears streaked on his cheeks. Niall darted glances between the two of them, red-rimmed blue eyes alit with fierce concern. At this point, Harry didn’t know if it was for Zayn or himself. 

When Harry didn’t say anything – he couldn’t say anything because what Zayn had said was both very true and very wrong – Zayn scowled deeper and leaned back in his chair. 

“Then go, Harry. Run and hide alone and suffocate what you feel and refuse everyone because that’s all you’re capable of doing, isn’t it?” 

Zayn spit it out at him, and Harry returned it quietly, resignedly. “Isn’t it?” And he left Liam’s flat and thanked his stars that Paul was waiting right out the door and that his face was just as impassive and unquestioning as it always was. 

As they walked through the corridor down to the garage, Paul spoke only once. “Ho – your – the flat?” 

If anything was going to make Harry cry today, it wasn’t going to be because his bodyguard couldn’t call their flat home without it being Louis’ anymore. 

When they’d arrived at their building, Harry made to step out of the car, but not before he felt Paul’s steady hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t bear to meet Paul’s eyes, so he watched the dashboard carefully. Paul was silent for so long that Harry considered just slipping out of his grip and getting away quietly, but that seemed inconceivably rude. 

Finally he felt a squeeze on his shoulder, followed by a gruff, “Off with you, then. Car keys in your place,” and Paul let his hand slip away. Harry stepped out of the car gratefully, but gingerly, glancing back at his bodyguard once. 

His eye was drawn suddenly to Paul’s exposed wrist, where five distinct black marks stood out on his skin. This was no old tattoo (as if it would have gone unnoticed by any of the boys over these years) especially considering the irritated red skin around it. 

“They’re just lines,” Paul said shortly, but he met eyes with Harry and that was it, then; he was going to cry because his bodyguard couldn’t bear to have just the four boys now and at least this way he could carry all five of them with him permanently. 

Harry waited until he got into his flat to cry, but he found that once he walked in the door, he suddenly felt unable. The room was so foreign to him, devoid of any sign of what his life had been here, that it didn’t feel right to do so. How could he mourn Louis in a house that suggested Louis had never lived here? 

So he packed quickly and took his backpack and locked the door behind him and didn’t worry about when he might come back. This place meant nothing anymore. Never mind Harry’s bed their first time, never mind the hallway where Louis had sprinkled rose petals for Valentine’s Day, never mind the cat clock that Louis hated in the kitchen, never mind the cracked blue mug hanging on a hook next to a green one. Damn it all to hell as far as Harry was concerned. 

The drive to his father’s bungalow went faster than he’d expected, because without Louis giving him wrong directions and demanding they stop at that very scenic marsh, thanks very much and begging for a stop before they got there so he could tidy up before meeting Harry’s father, it really wasn’t a drive at all. 

He was very glad Robin had moved in with his mum since that first time when just Harry and Louis came, a bit after all five of them did. That last time, Robin had told Harry that he rather liked Louis and that he hoped Harry kept a hold of him. Harry had blushed and returned to the bungalow where Louis lay sleeping in a cocoon of blankets. He had kissed him awake and then whispered that he loved him. And he certainly didn’t need reminders of that, now did he. 

Harry arrived at the bungalow around one in the morning and he immediately collapsed into a chair by the empty fire pit and tucked himself into his sweatshirt and fell asleep. 

When he woke up, the sun was much too bright for his liking, and had birds really always been that loud and why wasn’t Louis here why wasn’t he here he’d always liked those birds said they reminded him of himself they were overly cheerful and noisy and Harry had kissed his nose and told him they were also beautiful and sweet little things and that their singing made everyone’s day a little bit better and Louis had rolled his eyes but held Harry’s hand tighter. 

And then in the winter they were gone and Louis almost seemed to mourn for them but he seemed more often to be mourning for himself and then he was gone, too. Harry hated those damn birds. 

Yet it was spring now and they had come back and so had Harry and maybe that meant something but more likely it meant nothing at all. And most likely if he kept thinking like this he wouldn’t ever get out of his head, so he stood himself up, dusted himself off, and started walking towards the trees. A walk would do him good. 

He hadn’t expected to start building a tree fort, yet that was what he found himself doing by the time the sun was high in the sky. He’d remembered, at the oddest moment, that his father kept an axe hidden in an old tree stump, and found it still there from back when they had built a tree house here when Harry was eight. 

Walking a little further, he came across the tree house itself – or rather the broken remains of it, split boards lying across the forest bed and nails poking out of sodden planks. He chose to ignore the particular piece of wood engraved with two sets of initials and a date three years old sitting so beautifully coincidentally above the wreck. 

He ignored the hard-scratched lines that formed letters. They’re just lines. 

He supposed any number of storms might have taken the fort down; it was never built to last anyway. This one would though – this one could be a home if he chose. So he headed back to the work shed for nails, a hammer, a screwdriver, and some rope. He really didn’t know what he was doing but that seemed to sum up his life lately anyway, so he went with it. 

It was slow work at first, gathering steady planks and cutting them to size and lining them up just right for the tree he’d decided on. Screwing them into place while perched precariously on a branch was even harder. It didn’t help that his head starting swimming due to the unusually warm weather and to the physical exertion in which he hadn’t partaken for weeks and probably also due to the thoughts of the last time he’d been in a woods. 

That, of course, had been with the boys, when their yearly camping trip was filmed for their movie. It was hard to make things like they had always been, with cameras in their faces and understood instructions that he and Louis mustn’t get too close. He’d been so relieved when Ben and the others had packed up for the night and the five were left blissfully alone. 

Niall had been the one to start singing first, and it wasn’t until they were all singing, voices knowing how to fit together without any of those endless rehearsals, that Harry had realized they were doing Your Song and hadn’t they sung it on The X Factor after Harry suggested it and Zayn had rubbed his thumb into Harry’s thigh while they all sat by the bonfire and he really ought to call Zayn shouldn’t he but it was just so warm and green here and how wonderful life is when you’re in the wor – oh

Harry found himself on the ground, shoulder pressed painfully into the hard-packed soil, but thanked his stars that he’d narrowly avoided the rusty nails scattered around. His knees, though, had been scraped against rock and wood and he saw bruises forming already. His hands were splintered and his head ached already, so what difference was it anyway? 

He stayed on the ground for a good few minutes because it wasn’t like he was going anywhere and waited while a soft breeze floated idly towards him. And it was only a whisper but, “You don’t have to be alone,” and that was Louis and he knew it. 

He stayed lying down for a moment more and watched the sky through the sun-dappled canopy of new leaves. But this was one thing he couldn’t take. It just wasn’t fair of Louis. So he clamped his hands over his ears and shut his eyes and waited.

“You don’t have to be alone, Harry,” he said again, and Harry was certain he was going to break his neck if he shook his head any more fervently than he was now. The breeze lit upon his skin, paused there like it was waiting for a reaction. Harry took a deep breath and it seemed to fill his very bones. He stood up carefully. 

Feeling rather better about things, he opened his eyes tentatively. The blue of the sky wasn’t the sky anymore, though, and those were definitely careful eyes watching him. 

“Oh.” 

He didn’t dare let himself look any further than Louis’ eyes; he was certain he couldn’t do that, not yet. 

“Harry?” 

“I came here to be alone, Louis, I came here so I didn’t have to be there with all of them and with your haunting over everything and what a beautiful coincidence that you’ve come haunting me anyway.” 

He spoke to the ground but looked up carefully to see if Louis would still be there. He was, and his eyes were softer and more pained looking now. 

“Why are you doing this alone?” Harry sighed into the wind and looked away again. There was no reasonable answer to that because there was no reason behind his thinking. He just knew that all this time he’d been rational and cautious and kept quiet and now he was alone and he would be unreasonable if he pleased. 

“I thought I had to,” he finally said, and what a lame response that sounded, but that was the best he’s got. Louis shook his head incredulously, a slow fond smile forming across his features. 

“You know, Harry, I thought this whole experience might have wizened you up a bit, but it turns out you’re just as big an idiot as ever,” and there was Louis again, teasing, cynical but with crinkled eyes that belonged to someone much younger and much less worldly than him. 

Louis stepped closer to Harry, and no that wasn’t okay because as Louis moved to rest a hand on his shaking shoulder, to pull him in, to press his lips to his own chapped ones, Harry felt his resolve crumbling. 

Reasonable, reasonable, reasonable. He chanted it within his head and stepped away from Louis. “Don’t. You’re going to leave me wanting more than you could ever give me in both of our lifetimes combined. Don’t.” 

Louis looked injured, but his face changed to disbelieving as moments went by. Finally he let his hand drop to his side and smiled impishly at Harry. 

“Your being alone has really skewed some of your judgment, but whatever you say, young Harold. Now I’d like to go to the river and skip some stones. May we please?” 

Harry continued to stare at Louis for a few moments. Skip stones? He comes back to earth after dying to tell Harry he’s an idiot and that he’d like to go fling some rocks in a river? He might have understood skydiving, or cliff jumping, or pulling ghost pranks on unsuspecting citizens. But to do something so menial as skipping stones in his time, however long it is, with Harry? 

Harry supposed that was just like Louis. Expect the unexpected, and he’ll do the expected. Expect him to be the carefree kid that he always was for the band, and he swallows pills. 

“That’s what you want to do with me after coming back from the grave?”

Louis looked at him fixedly, almost amazedly. His voice shook almost imperceptibly when he said, “After all this time, Harry, and you still don’t realize that I want to do everything in the world with you?” He shook his fringe out and took a deep breath before smiling bravely. “And today, we’re skipping rocks.” 

Harry looked at him closely and wondered for the thousandth time if Louis was real. It hadn’t been an uncommon thought while Louis was alive either. But he nodded and fell into step next to Louis. 

They walked quietly to the river, which couldn’t have been more than a quarter mile away, but which seemed determined not to be found. It was probably due to Louis’ demand that he do the directions. When they’d circled around the same oak tree twice (“This tree, Harry, I swear was the landmark we’re supposed to watch out for. Your dad definitely said the oak tree.”), Harry finally spoke up. 

“You know, Louis, I’m probably going insane seeing as I’m talking to you even though you died quite a while ago, but one thing I will always know, no matter how senile I become, is the location of this bloody river.” He looked at Louis challengingly, to see if he would turn into some terrifying monster and eat Harry for defying him. 

But he just shrugged and gestured to Harry. “After you, ma’am.” Harry rolled his eyes but made sure to turn left after the tree this time. Before long they heard the glimmering babbling of the river, and Harry definitely wanted to kiss Louis when he heard him pronounce brightly that third time’s the charm. Hell, he wanted to kiss him. 

But this walk’s purpose had originally been to clear his head. Kissing Louis would only fill it with the memories he’d been carrying around in his pockets since the funeral. He hadn’t been sure exactly when it happened, but the morning after that fittingly rainy and dead-skies day, Harry had woken up with a notebook full of words, and an empty bottle of gin. Words about Louis, of course, and they’d resembled songs and yes he’d sung those that night. 

The papers were folded up in his pocket. 

They only bore upon him more as they came closer to the riverbank. He watched as Louis practically skipped to the rocky edge of the river, moving so much more lightheartedly than Harry had seen him in life for the past few months. How dare he. 

But seeing Louis consider which stone he chose, inspecting the riverbed and putting energy and care and interest in something – Harry hadn’t seen him do so in so long. Watching him finally pick his favorite and fling it gleefully, and impressively, across the untouched water, seeing his beautiful boy at action – it was refreshing. 

He ignored his head as he stepped closer, bending to retrieve his own rock. He was about at good at skipping stones as he was at anything else. He raised his hand carefully, lined it up at what he considered to be the right angle, and let it fly. His rock flopped clumsily through the surface of the water, and Louis turned just in time to see, and laugh. 

Louis laughed, and Harry did, too, until he realized he was crying. 

He was sobbing and he couldn’t do anything about it, so he wasn’t going to try to stop. He pulled his arms around his chest and rocked back and forth on his heels. He didn’t care what ugly sounds he made, even as he heard Louis’ soft shushes and felt his petting hands on his shoulders and through his hair. 

“Empty your pockets, Harry. Empty it all out. It’s okay.” 

He raised his head to look back at Louis, blinking his eyes to see more clearly. Louis’ blue eyes were locked right on his, firm, almost daring. He nodded. 

And Harry reached into his pocket, and he pulled out each folded piece of paper, each with words and words about Louis but those words were all just lines, just lines fitted fatefully together. Tear the lines: empty their meaning into the river. He smoothed each one out and looked at the letters but they didn’t seem to form any messages now. Then he balled them up and threw them, and he made sure he threw them better than his stone. 

The boys were silent for a long time, watching the paper drift across the river surface. It hadn’t been as satisfying as Harry had hoped, because they were still floating right there, and he could retrieve them if he wanted, and read them all again if he were careful in restoring them. 

But maybe it was better that he knew he could do so, and that he chose not to. 

“No more singing all alone, Harry,” Louis said quietly, and Harry knew he wouldn’t sing those songs ever again. He needed his band and he needed his boys. He needed Louis a lot, too, but at the moment he’d lost his only hold to who he had been when Louis was still alive. He’d gone and taken himself away, too. He couldn’t do that anymore. 

Harry nodded, more to himself than to Louis, and turned to face Louis again and of course he wasn’t there anymore. He’d come, he’d lived out his purpose, and he’d left. At least this time Harry could understand why. At least this time it made some inkling of sense why he would just leave. 

So he wiped away his tears and considered the tracks they might have left behind on his face. He was comforted in the fact that they were only lines, and that someday in the distance they would be replaced by different kinds of lines. 

Lines formed by laughs, or splatters of paint, or sweat after a show, or the wrinkles of old age, or tears of sadness and maybe of joy when he remembered Louis. But for now, they were just lines.


End file.
